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John’s blood makes Chas’ stomach lurch. He’s become accustomed to the sight of blood; on John, on himself, on strangers, on friends. Family too, when his memory decides to be unkind. But Chas could never numb himself to John’s blood. It reminded him of all the wrong things, of bitter childhoods, and shameful anger, and failed suicide attempts.
The television chatter sounds like it's coming from the next room over, words incomprehensible as he looks at the blurry images flash on screen. He’s perched on the edge of the bed trying to bat away cold memory and numb present.
John is laying on the shitty motel bed, a bandage on his side, pale and asleep. Chas sighs, runs his hand through his hair, trying to shake off the sticky feeling of John’s blood on his hands. Down his shirt. Except there is no blood on him anymore, on either of them. And John is safe now. Alive and breathing next to him.
The television chatter sounds like Queenie’s castle. Like the black and white television his mother had on while napping. The kind that felt droning when he was too scared of being louder. It makes him feel sick, and he can’t will his arm towards the television. The sound of a cough startles him out of the trance, and his head snaps towards John.
“Fucking hell.,” He grunts, hand hovering over his bandaged side. He tries to sit up and Chas pushes him down. When Chas can’t find anything to say, John’s grumbling pauses.
“You alright?” John asks, weary. He’s already begun looking around the room, like a defensive animal expecting attack, and Chas doesn’t fully know how to respond to that. To the protectiveness, or the concern.
“Are you? ” This pauses the motion building in John’s body, he glances at his wound again, and settles completely once he’s decided there’s no immediate danger.
“Never been better.” Chas feels himself relax at that.
He bends down to kiss his hand, and maybe it's the blood loss that prevents John from yanking his hand away. John’s gaze makes Chas’ chest hurt, it’s deep and cloudy, like he can see everything Chas is. All that he ever will be. But that’s ridiculous, John isn’t a psychic.
“I’m alright.” Chas decides, running his thumb over the top of John’s hand.
In a kinder world, Chas would hold him. In this one, he knows he shouldn’t. That he’s lucky to be allowed even this amount of John. Or maybe cursed. Every time John has made his trust in him obvious, it felt like a mix of both. Everytime Chas has held John’s trust in his hands he could’ve made everything so much simpler. If he’d just had the heart to. But he doesn’t, and even though his hands are big, and his anger brash, he could never bring himself to crush it.
John knows it.
So does Renee.
‘Maybe they both like their companions stupid.’ Chas shakes his head.
John had described this feeling to him before, like his head is full of cotton. John recognizes it now on Chas. His other hand finds Chas’, and he gives it a squeeze.
Chas can appreciate that.